Chapter 7 #2
Sneaking a glance, I take in his profile: sharp, composed, and unreadable. The clean and unbearably sexy lines of his stubble-dotted jaw have made it impossible to look away, no matter how hard I try.
“You sure you’re up for this?” he asks, eyes still forward.
“I think so. I mean, bottle-feeding kittens sounds pretty manageable.” I pause. “Sweet, even.”
Knox flashes that heart-stopping, crooked smile. “They said they’d walk us through it all. How often they’ll need feeding, certain things to look out for.”
“Okay…” I sip my coffee, stalling. “What’s the plan, exactly?”
He shoots me a look like he knows where this is going.
“Because Ms. Palmer—” I hesitate. “Let’s just say her no-sand rule almost guarantees she’s not a feline fanatic.”
“Figured as much,” he says with a one-shoulder shrug. “They can stay at my place.”
I blink. “You sure?”
His nod, without hesitation, tells me that stepping up, being reliable, is second nature to him. Which could be more dangerous than any crooked smile, especially for someone still learning how to believe good guys exist.
Knox turns onto a quiet street, and the clinic comes into view.
I didn’t realize how big the place was last night. Now, in daylight, it looks well-worn and well-loved, probably saving lives for decades.
He parks in a shady spot, and the engine goes quiet, his wrist resting on the steering wheel. “We don’t have to foster them for long.” His eyes meet mine. “Just until they’re stable.”
“Right.” My chest tightens because I already know one look at those kittens will make me melt. “This is temporary.”
I think.
Inside the clinic, a fresh-faced tech named Mateo greets us at the counter, a clipboard in hand and a calming smile that settles the flurry in my chest.
Knox tells him we’re here for the kittens, and within moments, we’re ushered into an exam room where Dr. Ochoa—same color scrubs, same gentle demeanor—waits.
“Good news first,” he says, nodding at both of us. “Wanda made it through surgery just fine. She gave birth to one more kitten, which is currently in our incubator. That little one’s too fragile to leave the clinic just yet, but we’ll keep you updated.”
I exhale, the tension in my shoulders slackening. “Thank you. Really.”
Dr. Ochoa smiles, then sets down a small packet of paperwork. “Now, for the rest. As I mentioned over the phone, Wanda won’t be able to nurse. Her uterus was badly infected, and we had to perform a spay. So the two kittens you brought in, plus the new one, are entirely dependent on bottle-feeding.”
Knox straightens. “We’re ready. Whatever they need.”
Mateo reappears with a crate of supplies: formula, bottles, a heating pad, and a shallow, plastic litter box no bigger than a dinner tray.
“You’ll need to feed the kittens every three hours,” Mateo explains. “Two to three milliliters each, then more as they gain strength. Warm formula only. Hold them upright, not on their backs. That’ll keep any milk from entering their lungs. They just ate, so you’re good till about two o’clock.”
Dr. Ochoa adds, “And stimulate them to go potty after each feeding. They can’t do it on their own yet. Use warm cloths, gentle strokes. They’ll get the hang of it.”
“What about litter training?” I ask.
Mateo hands me a tiny bag of non-clumping litter. “Once they’re a little older, introduce the box after each feeding. But for now, it’s about routine and gentle coaxing. Keep their space warm. Towel-lined and draft-free.”
The weight of this settles over me. Tiny lives. Round-the-clock care. It’s not lost on either of us.
“You’ll be tired,” Dr. Ochoa says, looking between us. “But it’s worth it. Any signs of coughing, diarrhea, listlessness—call us immediately.”
We nod, gathering the crate and carefully transferring the kittens into a fresh carrier, already warmed with a small, wrapped heating pad. Knox takes the heavier supplies, his hand brushing mine when I secure the lid. I glance up, and he’s already looking at me, like he felt that spark, too.
“Good luck,” Dr. Ochoa offers. “And thank you both. Not everyone steps up like this.”
Once we’re outside, Knox unlocks the Rover and opens the back. I climb in beside the carrier, settling into the seat with the door still open, the coastal breeze brushing past.
The kittens stir, muted mewls and tiny paws stretching under fleece. Both are tabbies but not completely identical. One has a caramel stripe down its spine, the other a smoky-gray M-shaped mark above its eyes.
“Hey, babies,” I whisper, peeking inside. “You’ve got no idea how happy I am to see you.”
Knox closes the door gently, climbs in, and moments later, we pull away.
The ride back is quiet. Knox hums along to something low on the radio—Duran Duran, perhaps. I rest a hand near the carrier and keep my eyes on the little furballs as they curl together.
We turn onto our street, and my heart starts ticking a little louder.
I’ve only seen the outside of Knox’s house. The thought of stepping inside feels…significant.
He parks and grabs the supply crate from the trunk while I carefully cradle the carrier. The porch creaks under our weight, and when he opens the front door, I step inside slowly.
Knox’s house is nothing like I expected.
Not sparse and bachelor-cold. Not overly polished either. It’s warm but dated: time-worn hardwood floors, faded area rugs, and built-in bookshelves with mismatched volumes, some clearly decades old.
A dark, cozy-looking sectional centers the living room, and across from it is a fireplace framed by smooth, gray stone. A single photo sits on the mantel—an older couple in wedding attire.
Must be his grandparents.
Pale light filters in through gauzy curtains, and there’s a lingering masculine scent that’s not overbearing but comfortable.
“Living room’s probably best,” Knox says, setting the crate down near the hearth.
I nod, still taking it all in. “This place is nicer than I imagined.”
He shrugs, modest. “Still the same as it was when my grandparents gave it to me ten years ago.”
“It’s cozy.”
“Sure feels that way.” He scans the supplies. “They may need another blanket. Be right back.”
Knox ducks out, and I unpack the crate and spread its contents across the floor. The kittens mewl as I transfer them one by one, careful to keep them close together.
Minutes later, Knox returns with a folded fleece blanket. He crouches beside me, tucking the heating pad beneath it, inside the crate.
“I’ll take the overnight feeding shifts.” He sits beside me on the floor, knees bent. “You’ll take the day shifts?”
“Deal,” I reply, cool and collected, though the ease of dividing feeding shifts like we’re a team sends a flutter down my spine.
We sit side by side in silence, the tiny sounds of sleepy kittens filling the room.
There’s no flirting or sexual tension.
Just two only neighbors fostering newborn kittens, and me pretending that being near him doesn’t feel better than being alone.
Maybe, for now, that’s all I need.